Blood
by peyote-angels
Summary: Now she's feeling more alone then she ever has before.


Title: Blood.

Summary: Now she's feeling more alone then she ever has before.

Author's Note: I guess it's a Ryan/Pam? Sort of, not really romantic. Maybe I'm just feeling depressed. I listened to Brick by Ben Folds Five a lot while writing this. You should listen to it while reading. Whatever.

* * *

The dizziness hits him first. Then the itching palms. Then the sweaty forehead. Finally, his nose starts to sting, feels full, and then drips. Blood falls on his desk, heavy and dark. It trickles down his lip and feels warm, his entire being feels feverish. His eyelids are heavy and he jerks himself forward, shaking himself and focusing on what's happening.

His nose is bleeding. He's suffering through a withdrawal and he merely wants to relapse but it's almost like he's too tired to put the effort into it. He's too tired to do anything anymore.

He holds his hand over his nose, standing from his desk, and slowly making his way towards the break room. He glances at the clock on his way. It's five thirty in the evening. And he's entirely alone.

The bathroom is cold and empty and he steps into a stall, sitting on the floor. He grasps a fistful of toilet paper, pressing it against his nose, feeling the tissue soak up within moments. It melts into his hand, warm and sticky, and he's blinking slowly, staring at the glossy stall wall in front of him.

He wonders how he ended up here. He wonders why he had to fall when he was up so high. Everything in him wants to be the Wall Street brat he used to be. He misses the wines and the cigars and the suits and the clubs and the girls and sometimes the boys and the expensive sunglasses and the weekends at Montauk and the nights in expensive hotels and the City, oh God he misses the city where everything is always moving and he was always moving, he never wanted to stop moving. But then he moved to Scranton and all he does is sleep and all anyone in this town does is sleep. And he's tired of sleeping, he misses movement and action and dancing and drinking and sex and the bathrooms of bars and mirrors and hundred dollar bills with neat creases in them that were made for cutting lines.

He pushes himself off the ground, dropping the deep red tissue into the toilet, not bothering to flush it. The mirror stares back at him, back at everything he used to be and everything he wanted to be and everything he is. He grips the cold ceramic sink and stares into the mirror with glazed familiar blue wet eyes that lie to everyone they look upon and are clear and see through and vulnerable and not so cunning.

Flakes of dried blood are underneath his nose, on his pale white skin, and he leaves it there, inhaling deeply, his breaths resounding in the basin of the sink.

* * *

She stays late. There's no reason to go out with everyone because she can't drink, and she's restless and going home won't help that. So she plays Solitaire for a few hours because she doesn't have to think about how sore her feet are or how fat she's getting or how hungry she is or how much she wants to vomit.

It's five thirty seven in the evening. She feels a twisting underneath her dress, between her legs, between her hips. She gasps, pressing her fingers to her lower stomach where the small bump had slowly begun to form. And she hasn't felt cramps like these in months, not since she got pregnant and stopped having her period. She breathes heavily, praying that maybe it was something she ate and not what every pregnancy book warned because really, this was the only thing keeping Jim around and she knew that and he knew that, he knew that she wasn't what he hoped she would be and she knew that she'd just keep building the disappointments until they overflowed.

A small cry escapes her. She slowly stands, grasping the desk and walking around it, holding onto the counter. Her steps are slow as she waddles to the break room and no one is around to help her, no one can hear her, or see her, or feel the tugging in her uterus. Her unsteady hands push the women's restroom door open and she walks in, inhaling sharply at every step. She drops down onto the plush couch, rocking back and forth and attempting to control the tightening under her hips.

And she's biting back tears as she feels a seeping between her legs and her body feels drained and her temple throbs sharply, painfully, stabbing her brain and thoughts. She stands once more and walks into the closest stall, allowing the door to hang open because she's alone and she's always alone and no one is ever there. She sits on the toilet, pushing down her tights and then her underwear and she chokes back a sob as she stares at the dark red spot and her stomach lurches.

"No. No, no, no," she breathes. And the toilet is cold and her mind is rushing past and her forehead is perspiring and her palms are itching. She takes a few minutes, just staring and not thinking, not breathing, not wanting or needing or hoping, because she stopped all of that months ago when Jim started sleeping on the couch.

And she slowly untangles her underwear from her tights and sets them on the floor before standing and adjusting her tights, picking up the cotton panties and balling them up in her palm. The cramping has stopped and she manages to walk out of the stall. Her reflection stops her with its hollow eyes and white skin and pale lips. It stares and she stares back, daring it to say something, and it daring her to be something. Only she won't and it can't so she pushes away from the sink.

* * *

And they both step out of bathroom at once and they both jump at once because they both thought they were alone in their own tragedies.

She looks at his face full of blood. He looks at the dangling bloody underwear.

He looks nauseous. She looks sad.

"I can take you to the hospital," he breathes and she stops breathing for a moment. And she's reflected in his eyes, in his sadness and the unbearable thought of tomorrow and every day after that. She sees movement in his pupils and it's almost like he shakes himself awake, like he feels something. A pained expression shadows over his features and he bites his lower lip, chewing uncertainly as she stands there in uncertainty.

"Thank you," she whispers. He nods, gesturing towards the door and she follows his lead because she isn't in charge of her life anymore and she doesn't want to be anymore because every decision she makes turns around and smacks her in face. He pulls her pink jacket off the coat rack and allows her slim shoulders to fall into it. His hands rest on her arms, briefly but gently, before pulling his thin windbreaker to him, slipping carefully into it.

They walk out of the office and stand in the elevator.

"Does it… hurt?" he asks.

"A little bit," she says. "Yes," she adds. A lot, she thinks.

He holds her hand for a minute, his fingers stiff and awkward and unsure because he hasn't held anyone's hand in a long time because Kelly won't look at him and no one else cares to either.

He pulls away once the doors slide open and they step out of the elevator and into the lobby, past Hank and into the parking lot.

"I'm sorry the car is trashed," he apologizes when they get in. "It's my friends. He's letting me borrow it."

She makes a noise in her throat and he doesn't think she notices it anyway.

They drive through Scranton.

"Have you told Jim?" he asks.

"No," she replies.

"Why not?" Every word he says is heavy and measured and slow and he feels as if he hasn't spoken in a long time but he's talking to her now so she doesn't have to talk to herself anymore.

"I don't know."

"It'll be ok."

"This coming from you?"

"This coming from me."

They reach the hospital. She's been holding onto the pair of stained underwear the whole ride over and she brings them in with her in case she can't form the single ugly word 'miscarriage'. Maybe the blood will help everything make sense. And she checks in and he sits in the waiting room for her because he isn't her fiancé and he shouldn't be in there holding her hand because he can't even support himself right now, let alone her.

So he sits and waits and feels his skin crawl at the month old magazines and sterilized soap and rubber glove smell. He feels his shoulders shrink forward as he wraps his arms around his middle, holding himself together in a place where things are supposed to be mended but hearts are constantly broken by the positive test results and unusual blood samples.

She comes out half an hour later and she isn't holding the underwear anymore but her eyes are blood shot and she's holding herself like he's holding himself because they're entirely alone with empty arms and sorry souls. He finds her eyes behind the salty tears and she attempts to make them clear, blinking quickly and allowing them to fall in rivers down her cheeks, fall into pools on her lips.

He walks her out and they get back in the car and he drives her back to the office and she's silent and he can't process this. It's nighttime now, and it's cold and she's shivering fiercely underneath her coat. They pull into the empty parking lot and she gasps like she can't breathe and pushes the door open to get air. And her head falls between her knees and she retches, puking onto the pavement, her hair in her face, stuck to the spittle on the side of her mouth.

And he reaches over and pulls back her mousy hair and holds it at the base of her neck. He never did this for Kelly and he didn't know why he was doing it now but he does because she needs someone and he needs someone to fix him.

She sits there for a moment before pulling away and stepping out of the car. "Thank you," she tells him, her eyes lingering on his but she can't let anyone see her like this so she straightens up and shuts the door before moving to her car.

He watches her fumble for her keys and he's getting out of the car and he's walking to her and he grabs her around the waist. She gasps as she's pressed to his chest. But her hands fold gently over his and she's bent over double, cries of anguish racking through her body and he clings to her helplessly. She falls to her knees and he's there with her, holding her on the pavement, his wet eyes buried in her hair.

And their dying together, melting into the parking lot, invisible and confused and empty. Because nothing's fair but maybe they deserved this, maybe it just happened so they'd find each other.

Because maybe they weren't meant to be alone anymore.


End file.
